


i'm with your ghost again

by elsaclack



Series: i know soon we'll be together [8]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Hiatus, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reunions, come suffer with me, don't forget this is lauren's fault, florida fic, some angst tbh, this hiatus got me dead and dying inside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:44:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"wait what if there’s a flashback during s4 of Jake and Holt leaving for Florida and it shows them saying goodbye to Amy and Kevin like I am not ready for that but it’s all I want" - Tumblr user youngsamberg</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm with your ghost again

**Author's Note:**

> so youngsamberg made a post about flashbacks to Amy/Kevin saying goodbye to Jake/Holt in s4 and i wanted to die and i wanted everyone else to suffer with me so i wrote this oops
> 
> it doesn't really fit with the fluffy theme i have going with that collection of one-shots sO i'm posting it as a stand-alone
> 
> important headcanons to notate:  
> 1\. Terry becomes acting captain in Holt's absence  
> 2\. Charles asks Amy to be his daughter's godmother
> 
> That's pretty much it pls enjoy pls don't kill me

There’s a precinct in Brooklyn whose interior lights blaze into the darkness of a wickedly cold December night. The building is just five beat cops shy of being a literal ghost town, stripped down to the most basic skeleton crew required to keep the precinct running overnight. Those five beat cops mostly operate between the first and second floors, which leaves the third and fourth floors uncharacteristically, eerily quiet.

On the fourth floor, a rogue fax machine is the only source of noise in the copy room on the far end of the hall. Screensavers blink and flicker almost in time with each other across the computer screens occupying each desk, suggesting every screen was abandoned at almost the same time some time ago. The air is thick with the reverence of a battle ground that still echoes with the terrifying clamor of a hard-fought war.

The office in the back of the room glows in the low light of one lamp still illuminated on the edge of the desk. The atmosphere is stale here, as though a stranger has taken residence in another’s home, but has used up as little space as possible. There’s a cushion on the couch with the remnants of salty tears still clinging to the fibers deep inside, shed on a night so similar to this one wherein a man’s statuesque facade was shattered at the sight of his husband’s pale, frightened face framed in a NYPD laptop; a night in which quiet words were mumbled between hidden sobs traded over a crackling connection between two men who were, in reality, thousands of miles apart. The office itself is identical now as it was then to the naked eye, aside from a small working space cleared on the desk by a man who, for the last eight months, has been the human form of the old saying: “…some have greatness thrust upon them…”

Outside the windows, beyond a civilian administrator’s desk cluttered with plastic succulents and discarded Sephora bags, are two identical desks pressed head-to-head. The surfaces are lined with a fine layer of dust; every now and then a line of particles suddenly pick up and dance across the small space between them, as though the ghosts of the partners that once occupied them are still there, still reaching across to pass case files back and forth, still flicking jelly beans and gum wrappers at each other, still sharing secret looks and teasing smiles and light, jabbing, flirting jokes. The desk facing the office’s windows still bares the outlines of the dozens of knick-knacks now locked away in storage, it’s owner currently in an airport on the other end of the coast; the desk facing the comatose elevator is long-since cleared, it’s owner having shifted to one several feet away months previously (both to be closer to the woman with the dark hair and darker eyes and to get away from what could only be described as the altar to the man she loves so much). She’s in New Jersey at that moment with a grin so blinding it lights the small suburb around her brighter than Times Square despite the fact that she has to repeatedly reach up to wipe away the blood trickling from the cut above her right eyebrow. It doesn’t matter. Nothing can bring her down.

It’s a stark contrast to her demeanor eight months previously; while the man in the office hid his tears behind closed doors and blinds over his windows, she hid hers in the back corner of the evidence locker. She initially went in alone, the thick veneer she’d developed while undercover in prison fissuring and shattering into thousands of tiny pieces as the reality of what was coming down the line finally hit her with the force of a freight train. She’d tucked herself away, hidden between two shelving units full of meticulously labeled bags of cocaine that she herself brought in, and bitterly wiped away the tears that streaked down her face. Her fingers trembled and her head ached and all she wanted to do was go home with her partner, her boyfriend, the love of her - …the man she loves _so much_ , where she could wrap her arms around him and bury her face between his shoulder blades and dream of the organizational heaven that would have been packing both his and her apartments.

She heard the door to the locker open and knew without looking around that it was him. She felt his fingers ghost along her arm, from her shoulder down to her elbow, and when she turned he looked at her like a man one breath away from plummeting into the abyss. She fell into him, tucked her face into his neck, and when they wrapped their arms around each other it wasn’t soft or warm or comforting. It was the ragged remains of the framework of a home being ripped apart by a tornado, the desperate bend and lean of a mighty pine tree on the verge of utter destruction by a raging wildfire, the clambering reach of one slipping over the edge to fall to certain death. His fingers tangled in her hair and her nails dug into his back and when he turned his head to press a kiss against her jaw she felt his tears trickle down her temple.

“So much,” he whispered against her neck. She scrambled to get a little closer, so close that she could feel his heart beating against her chest, could feel his lungs quivering as they struggled for air. She screwed her eyes shut and said her first prayer since Christmas Mass with her family for the man in her arms.

The fourth floor is an empty, waiting stage. In just a few moments the elevator will ding, announcing the first of several arrivals that evening. Cagney and Lacey Jeffords will bound out immediately, their shrill shouts of excitement filling the empty space left behind hours earlier, their pattering footsteps beating along the well-traveled path twisting and winding between clusters of desks. Cagney will bump against a solitary desk, knocking a framed photograph of Genevieve and Ellie face-down (which won’t be righted until Genevieve herself notices the following day). A baby stroller holding Ava that is pushed by Sharon will follow; Ava’s chubby arms will swing and wave, displaying her discontent at her inability to join her sisters in playing. Sharon will pause just outside the elevator to turn and ensure that Kevin is still behind her, and he will shoot her a tight-lipped smile. His discomfort with the atmosphere of the precinct will be obvious.

Not long after that, Genevieve will arrive, bouncing a quietly-fussing Ellie on her hip. She’ll speak in hushed tones with Sharon and Kevin, careful to keep the conversation light and ready to stop at a moment’s notice should Cagney or Lacey stop by. She’ll bite her lip hard enough to break skin and will press her lips against the top of Ellie’s head to hide that and the worried crease between her brows from Sharon, who has become the leader of the nine-nine spouses support group and is a watch-dog for signs of stress amongst her ranks. They’ll stay clustered together near the holding cell, glancing around the room, lingering on the places where their significant others described various anecdotes from the office, collectively feeling as though they have stumbled upon a diary of sorts.

When the elevator doors open once again, it will release the raucous sounds of a winning team, the deafening cheers and whoops of victory, and all the tension and strain of the last eight months will vanish out the window. Charles will elbow his way free of the pack first, having eyes only for Ellie, and he’ll ease her out of Genevieve’s arms and will hold his daughter close. He won’t admit it here, where anyone could overhear him, but later he’ll tell Genevieve about the close call, the moment he thought his daughter’s godmother was dead and that he would be, too. But for now he proudly announces that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would all be okay and when he kisses Genevieve on the lips he isn’t totally sure that the salty taste of blood in his mouth is from her or from when he’d kissed his daughter’s godmother’s forehead in relief upon realizing that the whack to the head from the butt of Figgis’ gun hadn’t killed her like he initially thought it had.

Terry will not be far behind Charles, heading first to his wife who flings her arms around his neck and breathes for the first time in what feels like months, and he grins at the sound of his twin baby girls shrieking “ _Daddy_!” and his youngest squealing with delight beneath him. He’ll relish in the feel of his twins yanking excitedly at his pant legs when he kisses his wife, thanking whoever is listening for the hundredth time that night alone for keeping him safe for his family’s sake.

Rosa, Gina, and Amy will stumble into the bullpen with arms draped around each other, drunk from their victory. Gina will tilt her head back and howl (the ultimate expression of her excitement is through the howl, she told them four months into the investigation, since it is the literal calling card of the wolf), and Rosa will join her (despite the fact that Rosa rolled her eyes four months ago after Gina explained). Amy will be laughing too hard to participate, tears of joy gathering in the corners of her eyes and her stomach contracting almost painfully from the deep, soul-shaking laughter quaking through her. She’ll still be laughing when she wriggles free from Rosa and Gina’s arms to fall into Kevin’s, and she’ll hold him so tightly he has no choice but to join her in laughter. Before she knew Figgis’ name, she never imagined this moment would be a reality, but she discovers over the course of the investigation that losing someone you love to Witness Protection brings those left behind impossibly closer together.

Charles will uncover two bottles of champagne tucked away in a drawer in his desk and the team (and their families) will toast to a successful mission and a successful arrest. Kevin and Amy will sit on the edge of Jake’s desk so closely that their shoulders bump, both of them clearly absorbed in the elated conversation flowing throughout the bullpen, but their eyes will flicker to the elevator repeatedly as the time wears on. It’s unspoken, but everyone knows: no one is leaving until Jake and Holt are home.

It will be nearly five in the morning before the elevator dings once again, and in the brief moment before the doors slide open, a hush will descend across the team. Each face, rosy from both the champagne and the excitement, will turn toward the elevator. Even Cagney and Lacey will pause in their sleepy game on the floor. And when the doors slide open and a snow-dusted Jake and Holt shuffle out, there will be another beat of silence.

The moment will shatter when Jake drops the bags in his hands just as Amy launches herself off the edge of Jake’s desk and sprints full-speed into his waiting arms. Jake will lift her off her feet completely and will spin her around; she’ll kick both her feet up to avoid catching her shoes on the handles of his luggage. They’ll both cry and try to speak but their words will be garbled and lost in the folds of Jake’s jacket and on the edge of the room Charles will hug his daughter a little closer and will try to hide the fact that he is on the verge of sobbing.

Holt will drop his luggage where he stands as well and will shove the bullpen door open almost violently to meet Kevin in the middle. They’ll embrace, arms harder than steel wrapped around each other, Kevin’s hand pale against the back of Holt’s head. They, in stark contrast to Jake and Amy, will remain utterly silent. The tears that drip down their faces and fall against each other’s shoulders will be the loudest sound emitted from the couple, but as Terry watches the men reunite, he clutches his wife’s hand a bit tighter. They say more to each other without words than they ever could with, he decides.

All of that begins in just a few moments, when the elevator currently rattling between the second and third floors deposits the first arrivals at their destination, but for now - for this brief little infinity - the precinct waits.


End file.
